


Father. Mother. Warrior. Maiden. Smith. Crone. Stranger.

by H3L



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:09:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister is judged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father. Mother. Warrior. Maiden. Smith. Crone. Stranger.

**Author's Note:**

> Another, very short, work for the J/B shuffled challenge. This one based, very loosely, on Lily Allen's [Him](http://www.metrolyrics.com/him-lyrics-lily-allen.html).

“He made the boy a cripple!” The woman cried, her hair riled and her beautiful dress swirling around her, kicked up in her fury, as she stared at the broken man at her feet. “Let him die.”

“He saved her from the bear, from the others, from herself,” said the girl. She frowned at him, almost sweet. “But he defiled his sister.” She shook her head sadly. 

“ _She_ defiled _him_ ,” the old woman crowed. 

The Crone, the smartest of the three women, but always the least heeded. He watched, bemused, as the three bickered. _Let him live. Let him die_. It was almost irritating. His son was bleeding out on the frozen ground and his kin could not decide his fate no more than the people of King’s Landing could decide who should rule them. He drew his sword, toyed with it in the dim light of the sun breaking through the barrier between worlds and casting a dim shadow on the rusted edge. 

“Let him live,” the Crone demanded and the Maid balked. 

“Let him die,” the silly girl replied, eternally cursed to be mistrustful of the Crone’s wisdom. 

He was tired of watching them die. The Others needed to be defeated. That farce of a God, R’hllor, needed to be quelled. The Wall was in pieces. The world burned and froze in turn, spiraling out of control. He was not ready to start again, and Jaime Lannister was his. He watched as she cried over the fallen soldier, the warrior maiden, her tears freezing on his pitted armor. She, the Maid of Tarth, belonged to him too, surely as much as she belonged to the Maid. Though, he suspected, the girl belonged more to Ser Jaime than she to any one of the Seven. 

“Let him die,” said the Stranger, as he always did, his black smile cutting. The Stranger and he were fast friends, brothers in arms, sweeping the field of battle, blessing and killing in tandem. The Warrior was not unknown to him and he not unknown to the Warrior, still, the vote was a bitter reminder of who the Stranger was. He would have them govern a world of ash and dead reeds. There was no glory in his death. No life in his eyes. 

“Let him live,” said the Smith. He was sullen and quiet, but he knew good craftsmanship when he saw it, and Jaime Lannister was made by the Warrior himself. 

“Yes, let him live,” he agreed. The mother rounded, her fury still simmering under the surface of her soft features and plump cheeks.

“You would say that! You crafted him in your image, hideous and prideful,” she spat.

“And lustful,” added the Maid at her side. She was blushing at him, as she always did. Wanting and not wanting, she struggled against the bonds that made her Maid. She knew nothing of the mother and father, of their love, and she railed at him from the golden cage of her innocence. “They call her _whore_ because of him, the _Kingslayer’s Whore_!” She shouted and the Warrior narrowed his eyes, running the fingers on his good hand down her porcelain cheek. 

“Do not fight on her behalf, she is more mine than yours, and she belongs more fully to him than to any of us.” He grabbed her chin and tugged it forward, whispering hoarsely into her face. “If he _does_ live, I’ll make sure he guarantees she won’t meet you in her dying.” His words rumbled past gritted teeth and she flushed more fully, he could practically smell the want on her and the Warrior laughed at the petulant little girl. 

“Enough,” said their Father, _the_ Father. He was just, but not kind. There was little hope there. The Warrior released his sweet sister and looked again upon his knight. Brienne of Tarth was shaking now, desperately trying to make him open his eyes, her fingers chapped and cracking against the battered metal and leather of his gorget. Beyond her were a thousand Brienne’s, all maids, all begging Jaime Lannister to wake. Car wrecks and fires, frozen wastes and desert sands, swords and shields, guns and tanks, street lights and wet roads and rain clouds. There were a thousand worlds, each one torn and on the verge of death, each one hinging on this decision. _Let him live. Let him die_. The Warrior was tired of death, tired of the Stranger haunting his steps. This has gone on too long, too many millennia. 

The Father was judging them, his grey eyes cast upon the pair, boring into their souls to lay bare their secrets. Ser Jaime’s labored breathes were short and the puffs of moist air almost entirely swallowed by the maid at his side. He pushed the Father aside and stood his ground, his golden armor, made by the Smith, glittering in the light of the red, rising sun. The veil was thinner now, as Ser Jaime came closer to death. 

“Do not presume to judge him, Jaime Lannister is _my_ son. He is forged in my image, my champion. I made him. And when the time comes to unmake him, it will be I who judges him.” 

The Father smiled, gripping the Mother’s hand tightly and holding her at his side. “Then let him live, if that is what you wish.”

_Let him die._  
 _Let him live._  
 _Let him die._  
 _Let him die._  
 _Let him live._  
 _Let him live._  
 _Let him LIVE._

Ser Jaime Lannister gasped and opened his eyes at the base of the Broken Wall, the light burning after he’d grown accustomed to the seemingly never ending dark of the Longest Night and making him blink. Brienne was red-faced, her lips chapped and her hair a frozen mess illuminated by the rosy sun. He had never thought he would see her freckles in the sunlight again, but was glad that he got the chance. She threw herself on him, crying in earnest, and he patted her carefully with his covered stump, his good hand trapped by her armored body at his side. Behind her Jaime could have sworn he saw the Warrior, golden and beautiful, but when Brienne sat back up he could see only her, ignited by the morning and looking more like the Warrior than any fever dream could. He kissed her then, in the light of the dawn, at the edge of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something to distract me from writing, editing, running errands, and doing all the things I am _supposed_ to be doing.


End file.
